Claimed By The Alpha, Marked By The Biker Chapter 40: A Day Without you

Kianna’s POV

The morning light seeped through the blinds like an unwelco intruder, casting thin stripes across my rumpled sheets.

I woke up with a start, my heart racing as if I’d been running in my dreams. But it wasn’t a dream that had bolting upright—it was the weight of last night pressing down on like a lead blanket.

Lysander’s face haunted , his once-gentle eyes now cold and accusing on that rooftop with cigarette smoke curling around him like a shroud.

The boy who’d sketched with such care, who’d taken a bullet for without hesitation, reduced to this—bullying so poor freshman girl just for looking at him too long.

It didn’t make sense. Lysander hated bullies; he’d told stories of how he’d been tornted in middle school for being the "artsy kid."

And now he was one of them? The change was too sudden, too complete. And Maddox’s words kept echoing in my mind too, "People break, Kianna. Heartbreak breaks them ugly."

If that was the case, then it ans again I’m the problem here. Lysander lied, broke my heart and when I’ve finally begun healing from him, I get blad for his terrible acts.

But it wasn’t just Lysander gnawing at . Mordred’s confession from his house last night replayed on a loop, his voice rough and defensive: " I don’t want to tell you because I’m protecting you."

But in the cold light of day, it felt like sothing else—control, secrecy or a wall he’d built around without asking.

The mory of the bolt shattering the window, glass raining down like deadly confetti, sent a shiver through . Soone was out there, hunting us.

And Mordred’s "business" at Pearl Street? He hadn’t denied Luke’s jab about it being more than racing. Gambling? Or Worse? The suspicion festered, a dark seed taking root in my chest. What if trusting him ant walking blind into another trap?

I reached for my phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with notifications. Lesley was still asleep across the room, her breathing steady, but I envied her that peace. The first texts that popped up were from Mordred, ti-stamped from last night and early this morning: It says.

"Hey. Can we talk?"

"I hate this—it feels like we’re fighting. Call ?"

Then another one just this morning at 6:30 am. It says:

"Morning, can we et after classes? I’ll explain everything I promise."

His words tugged at , that vulnerability peeking through his usual toughness. He didn’t like fights, didn’t like distance.

Part of wanted to text back, to let him pull into his arms and make the world feel safe again. But another part—the one still stinging from his tracking admission—held back. How could I trust soone who kept so many shadows hidden?

Then another ssage popped up—from Maddox, of all people. It says...

"Hey. Race at Pearl Street tonight at 8 p.m. I’ll pick you up if you want. You deserve the truth about who he really is. No gas. Promise."

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the delete button. Maddox? Offering help? After everything—the lies, the forum, the kidnapping? Even though I admit he has managed to change sohow, but still.... trusting him was sothing I couldn’t bring myself to do.

But Pearl Street—the place Luke had taunted Mordred about, the one Mordred had dodged when I’d asked. If there was truth to be found, maybe this was the way.

Curiosity burned, hot and insistent, warring with the fear that had beco my constant companion. Trust Mordred, or follow Maddox’s lead? The crossroads felt like a razor edge, one wrong step and I’d bleed.

The day dragged on in a fog. Classes were a blur—professors’ voices fading into white noise as I doodled absentmindedly in my notebook, sketching fractured hearts and shadowed figures.

The whispers about Maddox’s sudden change still circulated, but they felt distant, like background static. My mind was on the race, on the secrets Mordred kept locked away.

Lesley noticed my distraction at lunch, poking with her fork. "Earth to Kianna. You look like you’re plotting a heist."

I forced a smile. "Just tired." I didn’t tell her about the texts—not yet. She was finally laughing again, sharing s from her phone. I couldn’t drag her back into the dark.

By 6:30 p.m., as the sun dipped low and painted the campus in bloody oranges, I made my decision. And curiosity won. I called Maddox.

He picked up on the first ring. "Kianna?"

"Pick up at the dorm lot," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I’m coming."

"On my way." He responded, then the call ended.

I paced at the parking lot with my hoodie up and hands jamd in my pockets. Is this the right decision? Is finding the truth even worth it ?

The air was crisp, but sweat beaded on my back. What if this was a trap? What if Maddox hadn’t changed at all?

But the alternative—letting Mordred’s secrets fester and go unanswered was worse. I needed the truth, no matter how ugly it is.

A few minutes later, a sleek sports car purred into the lot. It was black, low-slung with an engine rumbling like a predator.

Maddox rolled down the window, his face illuminated by the dash lights. No smirk, just a nod. "Get in."

I slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool against my skin. The car slled like new money—leather and expensive cologne. He didn’t speak at first, just pulled out smoothly, the acceleration pressing back into the seat.

"Thanks for coming," he said finally, eyes on the road. "I know it’s weird."

"Weird doesn’t cover it," I muttered. "Why help now?"

"Because I owe you." He glanced at , expression sincere. "And because I know what it’s like to be lied to. Mordred’s not who you think."

We drove in tense silence the rest of the way, the city lights giving way to darker streets, warehouses looming like forgotten giants.

Pearl Street was on the outskirts, a derelict industrial zone that had seen better days.

The car bumped over potholes as we approached, the distant roar of engines growing louder, mixed with shouts and laughter.

Maddox parked in a shadowed lot, killing the lights. "Stay close. This place isn’t for outsiders." He whispered under his breath.

We got out, the air was thick with exhaust and excitent. Guards stood at the entrance—big guys in black jackets, guns holstered at their hips but visible enough to send a ssage.

They patted everyone down, tal detectors beeping like warnings. My heart hamred as one scanned , his hands rough but professional.

Maddox flashed a small, silver card embossed with a stylized pearl—and the guard waved us through without a word.

Inside was a fever dream. What used to be an old basketball court was now a makeshift arena—floodlights rigged to the rafters, engines revving on the cracked concrete floor with crowds pressed against chain-link fences.

But this wasn’t just racing. n in suits huddled in corners, exchanging briefcases. Won in short dresses circulated with trays of drinks that looked too fancy for this gri.

Guns glinted under jackets. Bets were called out in hushed tones, cash changing hands like water. It looked like a mafia smuggling ring dressed up as a party, not a bike race.

My skin crawled—how had Mordred kept this hidden? How deep was he in?

Maddox led to a shadowed spot near the tents, his hand light on my elbow. "Don’t draw attention. We’re just watching."

I nodded, but my eyes scanned the chaos. And then I saw him...Mordred.

He was under a large tent at the edge of the track, dressed in a black racing suit that hugged his fra like a second skin.

A group of n surrounded him—rough types with tattoos and scars, laughing and clapping him on the back.

Half-naked won lounged nearby, one draping an arm over his shoulder, whispering sothing in his ear that made the group erupt in laughter.

Mordred smiled with confidence—but there was a tension in his jaw I recognized. He was in his elent, but it wasn’t joy. It was survival.

I started forward without thinking, but Maddox grabbed my arm. "Don’t," he hissed. "You’ll blow our cover. If you want the truth, just watch and listen."

I froze, heart pounding. Mordred scanned the crowd, his eyes passing over our spot without recognition. The woman leaned in again, her hand on his chest. He didn’t push her away.

Maddox leaned close. "See? This is who he is here. Not the hero but the player. The guy who makes deals in the dark."

Before I could respond, a whistle blew. The race was starting. Mordred pulled on his helt, swung a leg over his bike, and revved the engine.

The truth was out there on that track.But as the bikes roared to life, I realized I might not be ready for it.